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ST. VALENTINE'S DAY 



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FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY 



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BY 

ANNIE ELIOT 



tij'^UX^ 



BOSTON 
1892 









ELINOR. 
LETTY, her niece. 



CHARACTERS. 



Costumes, modern. 




Copyright, 1892, bv Walter H. Baker & Co. 



ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 



Scene. — A parlor handsomely furnished. Elinor discovered 
alone with a book, which she is not reading. 

Elinor. How very absurd and mediceval on his part to send 
me a valentine ! A real valentine with, I have no doubt, birds 
and hearts and cupids and true lover's knots — and — arrows on 
it. I do not think I shall be entirely satisfied unless it has a heart 
penetrated by an arrow. There is something about a heart, in 
vivid color, penetrated by an arrow, that expresses an amount of 
sentimental suflfering otherwise impossible to delineate. I used to 
be very fond of the openwork ones over colored paper, but I think 
now I should be able to do without the colored paper. My tastes 
have softened down with the faded aestheticism of the age. But I 
should like some of those appropriate legends "stuck" here and 
there; something simple but convincing, such as, *' True Love," or 
'♦ Mine is Thine," " Think of Me," or " From a True Friend." I 
remember that even to the uncritical eye of youth these aphorisms, 
had rather the air of being attached as a work of supererogation 
after the real valentine was finished. They suggest convention- 
alized emotion in a way that is charming, and Dick and I both like 
our emotion conventionalized. 

Letty {fro?n outside) . Aunt Elinor ! Aunt Elinor ! Can I have 
an apple ? 

El. {sighing). She's always wanting something to eat. I sup- 
pose at her age I always wanted something to eat. {Aloud.) Of 
course you can have an apple. 

Let. Well, Pve had three. 

El. I've no doubt of it ; but you can have four — as many as you 
like. 

Let. Well, I don't believe I'll want more than four. 

El. {with a slight shrug) . I have a greater faith in her capa- 
bilities, founded on a brief but eventful experience ! What is to me 
so absurd about it is that Richard should fancy for a moment that 
that sort of thing should really have any effect upon me. He knows 
I'm the least sentimental of mortals, and that all the — the acces- 
sories of lovemaking weigh with me not at all. I wish they did, 
I'm sure. I'd like to know the sweetness of doubt and mysteries 
and surprises and that sort of thing again. I would like more than 
all to be jealous, just faintly, deliciously jealous, but that is out of 

3 



4 ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 

the question. I have passed beyond that, and of all men, with 
Richard Morrison. I know he is in love with me, and that fact is 
itself every thing at our age — would be everything, I mean, if I cared 
for him. It ought to be enough for any woman. 

Let. {from outside). Say, Aunt Elinor, there aren't anymore 
in the dish 1 

El. Any more what ? Oh! Fm sorry, but Jane will get you 
some if you speak to her. 

Let. It isn't really very much matter, Aunt Elinor, but if Jane 
can just as well — 

El. Oh, yes, Jane can just as well — It would need an extra 
housemaid to keep that dish replenished. What was I saying about 
enough for any woman ? It certainly couldn't have been apples 

— Oh ! about knowing he's in love with me. Yes, and he knows 
I know it, and that certainly ought to be enough for him. What 
more could a reasonable man want ? And what is the use of his 
telling me of it? It won't do any good ! I implied that to him 
the other evening when he showed signs of bringing up the matter 
for the dozenth time, and he laughed and said, " Day after to- 
morrow is the fourteenth of February ; I think I shall have to try 
sending a valentine," — as if a valentine would make matters any 
better ! Still, I'm curious to see what sort of a composition it will 
be. But it is afternoon and it hasn't come yet. I should believe 
that he would never think of such a careless remark again, except 
that Richard has a dreadful way of remembering careless remarks. 

- {Enter Letty eating an apple ; seats herself aftd swings her feet.') 

Let. Jane found some for me, Aunt Elinor, and she says there 
are lots more, so it's all right. 

El. {so7newhat absently). Oh, yes, I am quite sure it will be all 
right. 

Let. Say, Aunt Elinor, I've been reading an awfully interesting 
book. 

El. Have you? {Aside.) This taste for reading has been 
suddenly developed. I hope it will last. (Aloud.) What is it? 

Let. Oh, I've forgotten the name of it, but it is awfully interest- 
ing. It's all about broken engagements and misunderstandings, and 
they go to the most elegant ball, and he sends her the loveliest 
flowers out of his own greenhouse, you know. I've forgotten what 
kind of flowers it is, but it is some particular kind, you know, that 
//z^<2;^ J- something. It's a sort of queer name. I wish I could think 
of it, so if anybody ever sent me any I'd know what it was. It was 
in England, you know, at a manor house. I wish I could think of 
it. It isn't ylang ylang, you know, but — 

El. {langjiidly). Stephanotis, perhaps. 

Let. Yes, I guess that's it — anyway, it's just as good. I've for- 
gotten what it meant anyway, so I guess I wouldn't know. Well, 
he sends them to her, you know, and she doesn't wear them — oh ! 



ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 5 

there's somebody else in the house that's in love with him too, and 
she interferes — I think she mixes up the flowers, or something — 
she's an awfully mean old thing, and I should think he'd have seen 
through her in a minute, and known she — the other one — wanted 
to wear the flowers — I would, I know, wouldn't j'^?^. Aunt Ehnor ? 

El. Oh, undoubtedly! There's nothing easier than unmasking 
deception in books. {Aside.) One doesn't have anything half so 
interesting to do in real life. 

Let. \Vell, it makes an av/ful lot of trouble anyway, and he 
quarrels with her, the nice one, you know, and goes off with the 
other. She has the most perfectly lovely dress on at the ball — all 
kind of weird and serpent-like and glittering, you know, and oh ! I 
was dreadfully afraid he was going to propose to her — wouldn't it 
have h^QVi perfectly awful if he had. Aunt Elinor? 

El. Oh, yes ; perfectly awful ! {Aside.) It seems so long ago 
that I realized how perfectly awful it would have been. 

_Let. And, you know, all along you worry about this serpent one 
— she's the most deceitful thing ; she's a perfect schemer — and 
you wonder if it will ever straighten out. 

El. Yes, certainly ; it must be very interesting. {Aside.) I 
remember worrying over such misunderstandings, and really having 
doubts about their straightening out. It was crude, to be sure, but 
I fancy it was better than not "caring whether they straighten out 
or not. {Aloud.) ^Wouldn't you like a knife and plate.? 

Let. Oh, dear me, no ! It's awfully fussy to have a knife and a 
plate. I eat 'most every bit, anyway — all but just the stem and the 
other end. I like the core of this kind of apple — some cores I 
don't. Then there's an elegant scene at the end where somebody 
dies. I don't know just who it was, for I sort of skipped on, but it's 
the most affecting thing. I almost cried just reading it over once. 
And the hero — I think his name is Lionel — isn't that a nice name? 
so kind of odd ! — he's so despairing — you never saw anything like 
the way he talks ! 

El. Very likely. {Aside.) And yet I dare say he'll get over 
it. The more despairing they are, the less time they can keep it 
up — otherwise there would never be enough despair to go around. 

Let. Don't you think it sounds splendid, Aunt Elinor? 

El. Oh, yes ; there is always something very attractive about 
despair. But, Letty, I don't think that's the kind of book you ought 
to read. You know now that you are really in my charge I must be 
particular. Pd rather you'd choose something less — well, less 
emotional. 

Let. What? {Indifferently.) Oh, well, I don't mind. It's all 
the same to me what I read. I don't read anyway when there's 
anything else to do. 

El. {aside). There is one thing Letty will spare me, — that is, 
sentimental anxieties. She has no conception of flirtation or kin- 
dred amusements. 

Let. Say, Aunt Elinor, did you know to-day was St. Valentine's 
Day? 



6 ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 

El. {somewhat startled). Why, yes — I remembered it. How 
did you happen to think of it? 

Let. {with condescensioti). Oh, I have always known it ever 
since I can remember ! The boys home used to send lots. I 
didn't care much about the valentines, but it used to be fun to catch 
them ringing the bell before they could run away. 

El. How exciting ! [Aside.) I wonder if Richard will adopt 
that plan. I think I might be able to catch him ringing the bell. 
I do not believe he runs as fast as he did. 

Let. [still with cojidescension). I suppose it is so long since 
you had anything to do with such things as valentines and making 
love and — being sweet on people, you know, that you forget all 
about them. 

El. (^feebly) . Oh, certainly ! That is the sort of thing a woman 
always forgets. {Aside.) This is, I presume, a taste of the beauti- 
ful insolence of youth ! 

Let. Well, it is sort of fun while it lasts, of course — 

El. (/;/ an undertone). Oh, yes, while it lasts. {Aside.) She 
is not so ignorant after all. 

Let. And if the boys are nice. 

El. {in undertone). If the boys are nice, certainly. 

Let. What? 

El. Oh, nothing — only, as you say, if the boys are nice. I 
suppose it does make a difference. 

Let. {decidedly). I should say as much! It makes a lot of 
difference. If they are not — oh, they Ye so stupid ! They canY do 
things, and they want to sit quietly and talk. 

El. Age certainly develops curious tastes. There is something 
about sitting quietly and talking that I have known preferred to 
other pleasures — even at a ball. If the boys were nice, that is, of 
course. 

Let. Oh, well, at a dancing party they can't be very much fun 
anyway! Of course {generously) I know Tm not out, so I don't 
know all about it. 

El. What a perilous admission ! 

Let. I've danced at dancing school, you know, and it isn't half 
so much fun as games. I think " going to Jerusalem " is real fun. 
But I shouldn't think to go dressed up in your best clothes and 
dance with a lot of people you don't care about would be much fun. 

El. [smiling). But how about dancing with a lot of people you 
do care about? 

Let. {doubtfully). Well, I suppose that would be better. 

El. Much better — and so much better than only caring about 
dancing with one. [Aside.) I've always told Richard he was a 
goose not to dance. Not, of course, that I was referring to Richard. 

Let. {lookitig curioiLsly at Elinor). Do you dance now f 

El. {slightly nettled . Why, of course I dance now. Why 
shouldn't I? 

Let. [twisting abotd in an embarrassed manner). Oh, I don't 
know. 



ST. valentine's day. 7 

El. {aside). I wish she'd sit still. If they taught dancing, they 
did not teach deportment in Walkerville. But what is the use of 
being impatient. 

Let. I went to look on once at a hop at a hotel, and some 
married ladies danced ! 

Ya.. {dryly). Indeed? 

Let. I thought it seemed awfully funny, but they did. 

El. Well, why shouldn't they? — if they danced well. 

Let. {amazed) . Why — why they were mafried — married ladies, 
you know. 

El. Oh, yes. {Aside.) I suppose at her age I should have 
found it less difficult to follow her line of argument. Evidently she 
has theories. 

Let. Well, what I was going to say about Valentine's Day was 

— you know that elderly Mr, Morrison, don't you? 

Ya.. {ivith some indignation). Elderly? No; I don't know any 
elderly Mr. Morrison. 

Let. Oh, yes, you do too ! Well, oldish then — real oldish. 

El. {coolly). Do you mean Dick Morrison that comes here 
sometimes? 

Let. Dick? Well, yes; I guess perhaps you call him Dick, 
though it seems awfully disrespectful. 

El. {aside ^ devoutly). I am glad I can put my hand on my 
heart and say that Dick is five years older than I am ! But how 
long — oh, how long — will it be before people will say that elderly 

— no, not that elderly — that oldish woman, Elinor Hartington. 
{She sinks into gloomy reve?y for a momeiit.) Well, what about 
Mr. Morrison? 

Let. {consciously.) Oh, nothing much — only it's so funny that a 
man so old as he should know anything about Valentine's Day ! 

El. Oh, certainly. He's nearly forty. It's high time he lost his 
faculties. 

Let. No, not that. Of course there are lots who are real good 
business men after they are forty, but it's different to know about love 
and valentines. 

El. Certainly ; you are right there. I have heard it asserted 
that love — and valentines — were entirely disassociated in the 
masculine mind from anything that meant business. 

Let. Well, you know I've seen him a good deal since I came 
here. 

El. {somewhat coldly) . Have you? 

Let. {frankly). Yes; I've noticed that he has come real often, 
and he has talked to me a good deal each time. I suppose he always 
has been coming to see you, hasn't he ? 

El. I think I may conscientiously say yes, he has — more or less. 

Let. It must seem funny to see him coming now, just the way 
he used to. 

El. {aside) . I fancy it would seem more curious not to see him 
coming. 



8 ST. valentine's day. 

Let. I know some people do like that. There are some such 

people at home in Walkerville. There is one — he's an old man — 
older than Mr. Morrison. 

El. {satirically^. And still living? 

Let. {unconsciously'). Living? I should think he was! He 
goes Vound making calls 'most all the time. All the young ladies 
think he is dreadful, and they skip out the side door when they see 
him coming ; but there's this other one, she's just about as old as 
he is, and she's always glad to see him. He always brings up at 
her house. Everybody laughs and says he always has. 

El. Walkerville society must be delightful — so sympathetic and 
observant. {Aside.) I begin to see that Richard and I are really 
pathetic figures of a bygone generation. I hadn't thought of it in 
that way before. 

Let. Well, I don't know much about that. This cousin I was 
speaking of is ever so much older than you. 

El. Are you quite sure? 

Let. Oh, my, yes! {I^igemiously.) And I don't believe she 
ever was as pretty. 

El. Really, you overpower me! She might have been, when 
we were both young. {Aside.) Direct flattery after such knock- 
down blows is sweeter than honey in the honeycomb. 

Let. Oh, no, she wasn't ! She isn't — well — she isn't like you 
— she's different. 

El. {a trifle wearily). People are different, I know. {Aside.) 
In spite of these mitigating circumstances, she evidently considers 
it an analogous case. One gets wholesome truths and glimpses of 
the inwardness of Walkerville society at the same time. Poor Dick ! 

Let. Well, I was going to tell you about Mr. Morrison. 

El. Oh, yes ; you were going to tell me about Mr. Morrison. 
{Aside.) Live and learn ! 

Let. Well, as I say, he's talked with me a good deal since I 
came, and he said to me the other day — it was that day, don't you 
know, that some one rang the bell when he was here, and he said 
your doorbell was always ringing, and you said something about 
its being the primary object of a bell, and he said the primary object 
of that particular bell seemed to be to interrupt him when he had 
anything important to say, and you said under those circumstances, 
perhaps he'd have better luck if he wouldn't always be saying the same 
important thing, and he said he hadn't suspected you of countenan- 
cing the chestnut bell, and you said you shouldn't thinlche would hint 
at such an ordinary proceeding, and then Mr. Apgood came in, and 
you shook hands with him, and seemed so glad to see him, and I 
was so surprised, because I heard you tell Mrs. White the other day 
that you thought he was a dreadful bore, and he always came just 
when you didn't want him. 

El. {wlio has been listening in a state of letter stupefaction). 
Might I ask where you were during this correctly reported conver- 
sation ? 



ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 9 

Let. Why, don't you remember ? I came into the room just as 
the bell rang, and you said when Mr. Apgood came, "Here is 
Letty, Richard ; she will entertain you.^"' 

El. {slo'cvlv). Oh, yes ; I remember. {Aside.) This is the reali- 
zation of one's most morbid dreams of the enfant terrible. 

Let. And I tell you I just guess I did entertain him ! 

El. I haven't the slightest doubt of it. Did you — perhaps you 
gave him one of those dramatic reports of social events in Walker- 
villc, where aged men of forty winters are not yet shut out on ac- 
count of the natural decay of their faculties. 

Let. Well, I didn't say so much about Walkerville, though I did 
tell him a good deal. He seemed real interested in it too. I told 
him all about the socials we used to have. 

El. {faintly). Socials ? Did he know what a "social" was ? 

Let. Oh, yes, oi course he knew what they were. Why, I tell 
you. Aunt Elinor, I guess Mr. Morrison has been 'round a good deal. 

El. {mildly). Oh, you think he has ? Well, yes, perhaps he 
has been around a good deal, but I didn't know that he'd ever been 
to a social. 

Let. {with superior information) . He said he'd been to a good 
many. I didn't belong to this one, you know, but Julia did, and it 
used to meet at our house. Next year Pm going to belong. Well, 
I told him about them, and he said he'd like to go some time, and 
I invited him to the next one that meets at our house, and he put 
the date down, because I was afraid he'd forget it, so I guess he'll 
come. 

El. {aside). Richard in Walkerville, at a social! {Aloud.) 
Mr. Morrison has a great many engagements ; he's rather a hard 
man to get for anything, so you mustn't be disappointed if he does 
not come. 

Let. {easily). Oh, no, I sha'n't be disappointed ; but I guess he'll 
come fast enough. 

El. What is the sort of thing they do at socials ? Do they 
play — er — " going to Jericho " ? {Aside.) I'm sure it's no further 
off than Walkerville — from Richard's point of view. 

Let. Jerusalem, you mean. Oh, sometimes they do. {Laugh- 
ing.) I'd just like to see Mr. Morrison playing " going to Jeru- 
salem.'' I guess if there was only one chair left he'd have to go 
pretty fast, unless they wanted to come down in one another's laps. 

El. {stiffly). I've no doubt he would. {Aside.) It gives me 
chills to think of Richard in such a situation. 

Let. {still laughing) . And the music's awfully fast just at the 
last. How he would go ! 

El. {aside). Richard circling around a chair to fast music! I 
don't wonder the idea pleases her. 

• Let. But then they almost always dance. After they begin to 
dance they don't want to do anything else. Sometimes they en- 
gage dances, three or four ahead. Julia had four dances engaged 
ahead the last time. 



10 ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 

Y.I.. {softly). Indeed! How singular ! 

Let. I suppose the girls will think it's awfully funny to see me 
with a man Mr. Morrison's age, but I shall explain it. 

El. {distantly). How will you explain it? 

Let. {with a little embarrassment). Oh, I shall tell them about 
my meeting him here, and everything, and about the valentine. 

El. What about the valentine? {Aside.) Perhaps she means 
that she is going to exhibit him in the capacity of an uncle. Could 
he have told her himself about the valentine? 

Let. Why, the valentine he's going to send me ; that's what I 
was going to tell you. After we'd talked a while — that is, after Pd 
talked a while — seems to me he don't have much to say for himself, 
Aunt Elinor! I had to talk 'most all the time. Don't you think 
he"s sort of hard to talk to? Don't you have to do 'most all the 
talking? {Upsets waste-paper basket atid picks up the scraps.) 

El. Not «//the talking. Sometimes he finds language in which 
to reply. Sometimes he even introduces subjects which had the 
matter been left to me would have been avoided. 

Let. Well, we didn't really talk about subjects, but I talked a 
good deal. 

El. {suggestively). You know you do sometimes talk a good 
deal. 

Let. {coinplacently) . Yes, I suppose I do. I guess I'm an 
awful talker when I get going. They used to call me a talker from 
Talktown. But Mr. Morrison seemed to like to hear me pretty 
well. I guess he hasn't forgotten how he used to talk himself. 

El. Very likely not. Memory is sometimes the last thing to 
desert us. But what was it about a valentine? 

Let. Oh, I was going to tell you about that ! It seemed as if 
he wanted to say something to me, and he didn't quite know how 
to say it. Don't you know there are people like that sometimes? 

El. Yes. {Aside.) But I never observed it in Richard. It 
is 1 that find myself in difiiculties. 

Let. So I wasn't surprised when he began to speak about 
valentines. 

El. And why not? 

Let. {ingenuously). Well, you see, I could see that he liked 
me. 

Ya.. {aside). Dick's same old way. {Aloud.) Naturally. 

Let. And he wanted to take that way of telling me so. 

El. {satirically). I credited Richard with more imagination. 
It seems that he recognizes but one way of sentimental communica- 
tion. 

Let. What did you say. Aunt Elinor? 

El. I say Mr. Morrison is by way of sending valentines. 

Let. Well, I hope he will not send me a comic one. I think 
comic ones are horrid. 

El. I fancy he will not send you a comic one — not one that is 
technically comic ; it wouldn't be like him. 



ST. VALENTINES DAY. II 

Let. Did he ever send you a valentine ? 

El. {sovieiuhat disconcerted) . Why — I don't know — I can't say 
he ever did. 

Let. {triumphantly'). Then perhaps he rt'^.fj- send comic ones. 
But I don't beheve he will this time, because I think he means 
something by it. 

El. {dryly). Possibly. 

Let. Can I have a piece of that cocoanut cake? 

El. Which cocoanut cake? Why, yes, certainly. 

Let. I think it's awfully good cake, and Jane says we are going 
to have another kind to-night, so 1 thought that had better be eaten 
up. 

El. You were quite right. 

Let. {i^oes to the door j turns back). Say, Aunt Elinor. 

El. Yes. 

Let. Don't you tell that Mr. Morrison that I said he said any- 
thing, or that I thought he meant anything. 

El. No ; I never let him think that I think he means any 
thing. 

Let. Because perhaps he wouldn't like my telling you, you 
know. {Exit.) 

El. I feel utterly dazed. The only idea that I seem to have 
saved from the general wreck is that there is an extreme -likelihood 
of Richard's sending me a comic valentine ! And that's something 
I had never thought of. What in the world does he send one to 
Lettyfor? Something she said suggested it probably. {Pauses.) 
Yet why do I refuse to put her own construction on it, — that he 
likes her! {Rises; lualks restlessly about.) Why should he not? 
come, now — why should he not ? She is pretty enough — in a way 
— fresh, 7idive — just the sort of thing to fascinate a somewhat 
blase man like Dick Morrison. What do men care for crudities of 
manner or speech, if a girl strikes them pleasantly? And how 
should he know that her grand passion is cocoanut cake? I have 
been told that he would tire some time of fruitlessly playing the 
lover with me. He has not said a direct word of love to me since 
Letty came! not a word! He certainly did talk with her a long 
time the other day. And to promise to go to a social in Walker- 
ville ! That is equivalent to a threat of blowing his brains out from 
a more emotional character. {Throws herself into a chair.) Well, 
I ought to be glad. I think perhaps I am glad. I'm not in love 
with Richard Morrison. I said that half an hour ago — and I've 
said it any number of times before — and he only takes me at my 
word. And yet — and yet — (/;/ a burst of impatience.) Letty ! 
That child ! How utterly absurd ! Men have no right to abuse 
their privilege of being absurd ! {A paiise.) I do not know what 
to think. I will let the valentine episode decide the matter ! He 
can't be going to send the same one to both of us. When we have 
conned our respective valentines we may understand each other 
better. 



12 ST. VALENTINES DAY. 

{Enter Letty with cake.') 

Let. Don't you want a piece. Aunt Elinor? 

El. {absently). Thank you, Letty, not just now. {Aside.) 
She is rather pretty. 

Let. I like to eat the cocoanut off the top first. {Proceeds to 
do so.) 

El. [aside). Richard has not seen her do that ! Positively I am 
too annoyed to be agreeable. {Aloud.) While you eat your cake 
I shall go for a book to read. {Rises.) I will come back in a few 
moments. 

Let. {ivith her mouth full). You can have the one I was read- 
ing if you like. 

El. No ; I am in the middle of another. 

Let. All right. {Exit Elinor.) I think ifs sort of funny 
about that old Mr. Morrison. I guess he has been paying Aunt 
Elinor some attention. {With astuteness.) I bet you anything 
that's what it is! But I heard her tell Mrs. Paine the other day, 
when she said something to her about him, that they were just 
nothing but friends ; that they'd known each other always, and that 
it was perfectly ridiculous to say they were anything else. So of 
course she can't care anything about him, or she wouldn't say that I 
I suppose when he saw me he felt differently {consciously), and 
there can't be any harm in my just carrying on with him. Aunt 
Elinor won't care, and I guess I can manage him. {A bell.) 
There! There's a valentine now ! {Runs towards the door.) Oh, 
if I was at home I'd just teaf down and see who it was before they 
could get away, but Aunt Elinor said I'd better let Jane go to the 
door. I wonder if he'll leave it on the step. {A pause; she opens 
the door and calls.) Jane! Jane! Bring it up-stairs. {Another 
pause.) Who brought it? A telegraph boy? Oh. {Receives an 
envelope at the door and returns.) Why, it's just addressed " To 
mv Valentine." Well, of course that means me, because Aunt 
Elinor wouldn't expect any. {Enter Elinor.) 

El. {zvith some curiosity). Who came just now, Letty; do you 
know ? 

Let. Yes ; it was my valentine. See. 

^i.. [aside). Richard's writing! {Aloud.) But supposing there 
should be a mistake, Letty? Perhaps this is meant for me. 

Let. {amazed). Why, Aunt Elinor, it is addressed, "To my 
Valentine." 

El. {laughing, with some confusion). Well, you know that is a 
little ambiguous — capable of a double construction. 

Let. I don't know what you mean by ambiguous, but I am sure 
it must be for me — and it is the only one that has come. 

El. {aside). This is too ridiculous — to dispute about such a 
trifle ! {Aloud.) Well, Letty, suppose you open it, then we can 
decide. 

Let. {opens the envelope; disappointedly). Oh, it's only a 
written one ! 



ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 1 3 

El. (Jiolding out her hand). And he would have sent you a 
printed one — so it must be for me. 

Let. Oh, well, it's verses ; I guess thaf s all right. If it had been 
printed I suppose it wouldn't have been much but verses anyhow, 
only printed verses seem so much more the real thing. 

El. So we're apt to think about anybody's but our own ! 

Let. Shall I read them? 

El. {with suppressed impatience) . Unless you will let me read 
them first. 

Let. {kindly) . I guess he'd like it better if I read them first 
myself. (Elinor sits down with her book and a despairim^ ges- 
ture. 'L.^TTY looks over the page.) Would you like to hear them? 

El. {coldly) . Just as you please. 

Let. Why, Aunt Elinor, you don't mind his writing to me, do 
you? 

El. {hastily). Of course not; why should I? 

Let. I didn't know but perhaps you didn't like it. Well, this is 
the way it goes. {Reads witii constant blundering and false 
etnphasis .) 

"A trite old fashion — yes — at best." 

Why, I don't see why he should think it so very old-fashioned, 
do you ? 

" A veil whose wearer stands confest." 

I think that's awfully funny — the idea of a man's wearing a veil. 
El. {dryly). Probably this is intended for a comic valentine. 
Let. "A" — something or other. 

"A r7(se that cares not to mislead." 

Well, he'd better have directed it more carefully then — that's all 
I've got to say. 

" A riddle he that runs may read." 

I think that's kind of mixed up, myself. 
El. I think it's very pretty. 

T grp " But ah ! so is the story old, 

So is my lady fair and cold." 

That's me, I suppose. 

El. {with suppressed exasperation). Certainly a most trans- 
parent allusion ! 

Lj^-j-^ " As fair as those of other days." 

I'd like to know what ones of other days. It makes a good deal 
of diflference, doesn't it, Aunt Elinor? I'd like to know just who 
he meant, for some of them are real homely in the history we read 
at school. 

El. {bitterly). Oh, Helen of Troy, of course. They always 
begin with Helen of Troy — don't be too exacting. 

Let. {with illumiiiation). Or perhaps he means some of the 
girls he used to be in love with. I'm sure he has had time to be in 
love with lots. 



14 ST. VALENTINE S DAY. 

El. {with asperity^. Possibly he has not husbanded his time 
properly, and consequently has not made the most of such oppor- 
tunities. 

Let. Oh ! well, I don't mind. I ain't jealous of any of 'em. 

" Is not a wisely pleading tongue 
As rare as when the world was young? " 

I should think he ought to know, shouldn't you. Aunt Elinor? 

El. {who is somewhat near suffocation). Yes; but he could 
not expect you to, you know. So it must have been intended for 
me. 

Y^Yfl. " ^*^^' "^^^^ "^'^ woman's fancy bid 

Her lover keep his passion hid ? " 

Oh, I think that's just stuff! 

El. {?'ising, on the brink of tears'). I insist that you do not 
read any more of what was not intended for your eyes ! Letty, give 
me that paper immediately. Your childish vanity has led you past 
all bounds. You may be very sure Mr. Morrison — or anybody 
else — would never have thought of addressing a girl like you in 
such terms. It was written for me, and I assert my claim to it. 

Let. {amazed ) . But, Aunt Elinor, what would he write you a 
valentine for? You said you and he were only just friends, and 
friends don't send valentines. 

El. {somewhat startled). Why, yes, they do. To be sure 
they do — often. Why shouldn't they? 

Let. {triumphantly). But this isn't for a friend ; it's for the 
lady he loves — he says so farther on ! 

El. {aside). This is dreadful — but I cannot compromise my 
dignity by taking it from her by force. {Aloud, with a little hesita- 
tion.) Well, perhaps — Mr. Morrison and I — are something more 

— than friends. 

Let. Oh, goodness ! Are you really? But he said he'd send 
me a valentine. And I guess if you knew how he talks to " a girl 
like me," you wouldn't say so much about my vanity. 

El. {ajigrily). I will not believe he said anything to a girl like 
you that — that was anything at all ! 

Let. {demurely). Well, perhaps it wasn't so much — but — well 

— if you cared anything about him — I'd tell you what it was. 
El. {almost snappishly) . I do care about him. 

Let, Oh, well, then, you can have your old valentine, if it is as 
bad as that ! {Tosses it over.) 

El. {horrified •, aside). What have I said ? What have I ad- 
mitted ? I have told this child more than I ever told Dick. {Looks 
apprehensively at Letty.) And the little wretch is enjoying it ! I 
knew Richard would make trouble with his foolish idea about val- 
entines ! {Aloud, with dignity.) Letty, you can go in the other 
room and write your French exercises ; you have been rather im- 
pertinent. 

Let. {pouting) . I wouldn't have said anything about that Mr. 
Morrison if I'd thought you'd care. 



ST. VALENTINES DAY. I 5 

El. I do not care. {Aside.) Every shred of my dignity is going 
— I've contradicted myself in every point. {Aloud.) At least, I 
only care that you should not be silly and foolish. 

{Exit Letty somewhat pettishly .^ 

I wonder if I shall ever be able to look Dick in the face after the 
unblushing confession I have made under the — the irritating ag- 
gravations of that niece of mine. One comfort — he will know 
nothing of it ; I will see that she does not repeat anything. Now 
let me see the valentine. {Reads.) 

" A trite old fashion — yes — at best. 
A veil whose wearer stands confest ; 
A ruse that cares not to mislead ; 
A riddle he that runs may read." 

Can Dick have written these lines himself ? Or is it bribery, 
corruption, and a local poet ? 

" But, ah ! so is the story old, 
So is my lady fair and cold, 
As fair as those of earlier days, 
As cold as those of sweeter lays." 

That last line can't refer to my temper ! 



' Is not a wisely pleading tongue 
As rare as when the world was young ? 
Still, does not woman's fancy bid 
Her lover keep his passion hid? " 



There's a hint of personal experience in those lines. I'm afraid 

Dick sat up all night to write them. 



" And so I take this old, old way 
To make her heed what I would say. 
This pen, like keener pens than mine, 
Shall write my love a Valentine." 

It is not so bad, so far. 

" And ask, are not old fashions best? 
Can Love like Friendship not be drest. 
And still be Love ? And, to be true, 
Must Love and Lover both be new ? " 

{Pauses, a7id 7'epeats the lilies thflughtf idly.') I am not sure that 
they must. Perhaps, after all — but what nonsense this is ! To be 
convinced by a valentine, and not a hint of a heart or an arrow or 
even a glimpse of colored paper. {A trifle hysterically.) I should 
think at least he might have had it //;/^<iwith colored paper. St. 
Valentine's Day has bewitched us all — but I am I — and Dick 
Morrison is just Dick Morrison in spite of his poetry. And yet — 
and yet — 

" Must Love and Lover both be new ? " . . . 

Well, let US proceed : — 



i6 ST. valentine's day. 

" And thus with other ladies, mine 
Is trusted to St. Valentine. 
And will she venture, when they meet, 
To tell him he is obsolete ? " 

Hum! Well, not obsolete, perhaps, but — rococo — a very good 
person to take a message, but the district telegraph is within 
easier reach. Still, there is something rather charming about re- 
ceiving a valentine. I feel as if some one had asked me to go slid- 
ing down hill in the country. I wonder if I would have liked it quite 
as well if it had come from anybody else ! The idea of Letty — 
Oh ! that was too absurd ! Those questions are worse than the 
catechism. I feel as if I must give them categorical answers ! 

" Can Love like Friendship not be drest 
And still be Love?" 

{Laughing, a little nervously.) Well, Richard has won a certain 
advantage by handing me over to St. Valentine ! I feel as if he was 
waiting for my answer, like a telegraph boy, and it wasn't quite 
good form to keep such a personage waiting long. Altogether I 
feel myself weak and vacillating. 

{Enter Letty eating candy from a box.') 

Let. Aunt Elinor, why, now, Mr. Morrison is in the reception 
room. 

El. {with a little start] aside). I'd almost rather it were St. 
Valentine ! 

Let. {eating). And I guess that valentine was for you, because 
I asked him, and he said it was ; and he brought this with him for 
my valentine, — he didn't have time to send it, — and I'd rather 
have it anyway ; and I told him what you said. Won't you have 
some, Aunt Elinor ? 

El. {taking candy mechanically). Told him what that I said ! 
I didn't say anything. 

Let. {easily). Oh, yes — you know about your knowing he 
wouldn't write to me, because he cared about you, and you cared 
about him, or something. 

El. O Letty, why I never said so ! How did you dare to 
repeat it ? 

Let. Why, he didn't mind a bit ! He just laughed and said he 
guessed his valentine was addressed right after all. 

El. {indignantly). Well, it wasn't. At least I don't know 
whom it was addressed to. 

Let. I told him you just knew it was for you. {A pause.) Well, 
he is waiting for you to come down. 

El. {weakly). Well, I don't know what he means by it! 

Let. And he says you needn't be troubled about his writing 
poetry, he'll never do it again. 

El. I don't know why it should matter to me. {Aside.) I 
don't know either why I am bandying words with Letty in this 



ST. valentine's day* 17 

worse than trivial fashion. Til go and see him myself, of course. 
{jRises, takes up valentine irresolutely.) 

" And will she venture when they meet 
To tell him he is obsolete ? " 

I don't quite know, I am sure. (Exit laughing.) 
'Lkt. {exit slowly, or waits for cztrtaifi). Well, I think there's 
an awful fuss about a written valentine. Tm sure I am glad he 
didn't give her the candy. I guess her head would have been 
turned then. 

CURTAIN. 



PROPERTIES. 



Apple. Cocoanut cake. Scrap-basket and papers. Valentine. 
Box of candy. 



TWO NEW COj^KDIES 

By tlie Author of "A RICE TUDDING." 

M fl UTQGRflPH I ETTER, 

By ESTHER B. TIFFANY, 

^he author of "Anita's Trial," "Youn^j Mr. Pritcliard/ 
"That Patrick." etc. 



Price, 



A comedy drama in three acts for five male and five female charac 
ters. This latest play of Miss Tiffany is by far the strongest work from 
her pen, and unites to the brilliancy and grace ^hich characterized heb 
earlier pieces, dramatic power of a high order. A charming little love- 
story, tender in sentiment but without mawkishncss, is cleverly combined 
with a plot of a graver nature which is developed in a series of scenes of 
great interest and power. As in all her pieces, the dialogue is oistin- 
guished br brilliancy, and its humor genuine but refined. Two scenes 
only, both interiors, are required, and the properties and dresses are 
simple, modern in character, and easily gotten up. Equally suitable 
for stage or parlor performance. Play? ?boMt two hours. 



THE WAY TO HIS POCKET. 

By the Same Author. 

Prtee, ---.---15 cents. 

' A comedy in one act for two male and three female character=>. Scene 
an interior, costumes modern. All its requirements are simple to the 
last degree and offer no difficulties. This little play is in Miss Tiffany's 
best vein, and admirably continues the series of parlor pieces, refined 
in humoK *v4 clever \n plan, of which she is the author. Plays about 
an hour. 



For Other Novelties s^ee Other Side. 



Baker' sajPescriptive Catalogue. 



GEORGE RIDDLE'S READINGS. 

A representative collection of the most popular selections of thi 
most popular elocutionist. Many of the readings contained in this vol 
ume were written expressly for Mr. Riddle, and are here printed for the 
first time. 

197 pp., clotli. Price, Sl.OO, net. By mail, SSH.IO. 

CONTENTS : 

COME HERE! From the German . . By Genevieve Ward 
A CURE FOR DUDES . . By John T. Wheelwright 
A SEWING "SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL" « 
UNCLE MICAJAH'S TREAT AT 

SLAMBASKET BEACH ..." « 

And other choice pieces, original and selected. 



THE VON BOYLE RECITATIONS. 

The dialect recitations of Ackland Von I'oyle, vocalist and 
character delineator, arranged by liiniself. An excellent collection of 
humorous recitations, comprising German and Chinese dialect. 
68 pp., paper covers . . I'rice, 15 cents. 



BAKER'S A. B. C. LEAFLETS. 

A series of selected recitations, published singly, for the economy 
and convenience of readers. Tliese are published occasionally, as 
material offers. The series now contains : — 

THE ADVANCE By F. H. Gassaway 

AN INNOCENT DRUMMER 

COMPANY K 

4 pp. each, paper . . Price, 5 cents each. 



THREE POPULAR SONGS. 

SHAMROCK AND ROSE. 

MY IRISH QUEEN. 

MA BOUCHALEEN BAWN. 

And other music incidental to the favorite Irish drama, 

" Shamrock and Rose." 

By R. W. Lanigan and Leo A. Munier. 

The three published together at fiO cents, obtainable only of 
the publishers. 



A NEW PLAY FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS. 

A Comf anion to "REBECCA'S TRIUMPH:' 

ANITA'S TRIAL; 

Or, Our Girls in Camp. 

By Esther B. Tiffany, author of "A Rice Pudding," "That Patrick," 

" Young Mr. Pritchard," etc. 

Price, -.-_-_- 25 cents. 

This is a bright and sparkling comedy in three acts, for eleven 
female characters. Its story is entertaining, and its dialogue dis- 
tinguished by this author's delicate humorous touch. One scene only 
is necessary for the three acts — a camp in the woods, easily arranged. 
The dresses are simple and picturesque camping costumes. The enor- 
mous success of "Rebecca's Triumph " has created a demand for this 
sort of piece, to meet which we confidently present "Anita's Trial," 
in which is solved, with no less success tlian in its predecessor, the 
difficult problem of constructing a play of strong human interest with- 
out the assistance of male characters. 



The n HRONOTHflNATQLETRQ N: 

OR, OLD TIMES MADE NEW. 

An entertainment in one act for sixteen girls, written for the Class Day 
Exercises at Dana Hall School, Wellesley, Mass., by two members 
of the Class of '87 and first performed before members of the school 
and their friends, June 18, 1887, and later at Ellsworth, Maine, 
April 6, 1888. 

Price, 35 cents. 



THE PEAK SISTERS. 

A humorous entertainment for young ladies. Arranged by Mary B. 
HoRNE. Any number of ladies may take part, but seven only are 
necessary. No scenery; costumes very simple. This laughable 
trifle meets witii invariable success wherever performed. 
Price, -------16 cents. 



THE BOOK OF DRILLS. 

I^J^I^T I. 

A group of entertainments for female characters for stage or floor per- 
formance, by Mary B. Horne, the author of " The Peak Sisters," etc. 

Price, -30 cents. 



WALTER E BAKER & CO., PiMers, 23 f Mer St, Boston 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




AN ENTIRE NO\ 



017 401 288 A • 

THE GREAT Mukml 



Dime Show 



:n 



Author of 



AH ENTERTAINMENT IN ONE SCENE. 



By MARY B. HORNE, 

"The Peak Sisters," Prof. Baxter's Great Invention, 
'The Book of Drills," "The Carnival of Days," 
"Plantations' Bitters," Etc. 



Nine male, seven female characte'-s. Costumes simple; scenery an ordinary 
interior, or may be dispensed with altogether. Plays from half an hour upward, 
according to the number and character of additional specialties introduced. 
Printed exactly as first performed by the Unity Club, Watertown, Mass., on 
Friday •veiling, February 5, 1892. 



This most amusing entertainment is a burlesque of the ordinary "dime- 
museum," so-called, but is entirely devoid of the vulgarity of its original, and 
perfectly adapted to church or home performance. The characters are, save the 
lecturer and her assistant, a wonderful collection of "freaks" of nature (some- 
what assisted by art) who sing, dance or recite, according to their special 
abilities, in illustration of the explanatory lecture. It is most elastic in its 
requirements, can be played on any stage or platform, with or without scenery, 
and with a greater or smaller number of characters, according to taste or 
necessity. It can be made uproariously funny, and is in character as well as fact 

A SEQUEL TO THE PEAK SISTERS. 



Prices 



15 Cents. 



SCENE.— Tlie exhibition hall of Sister Ke:4iah's Show. Sister Keziah's intro- 
ductory Jecture. johnalhan, the bashful assistant. Introductory hymn. 
Introduction of the "freaks." Daniel McGinty redivicus. Daniel's song. 
Lucia Z\rate, the celebrated Mexican dwarf. Kioto, the shortest man 
alive, not financially. The wonderful Mekmaid. The Mermaid's song. 
Cassius White, the ossified boy. A "rocky" recitation. Kallulu, tlio 
only speciinen of his kind in captivity; illustrated by cuts. Signor Galassi, 
the celebrated Glass Eater. Galassi sings. Allegro Penseroso, the won- 
derful two-headed girl; not to be confounded Avith the more common two- 
/aced girl. Two ways of eating a pickle. Ida and Ione. the Grecian 
maidens. Raphael Tintoret, the blin.l painter, who paints blinds in full 

"• view of the audie ce. Ah Chin and Wun Lung, the Chinese twins, tx 
tremely well connected from birth. *' The Land of Tea." Ka-foozle-fi m. 
the Turkish vocalist. Grand finale and curtain. ,, 



